jangled. The text he’d received from his dad didn’t help.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” a large male with a soft voice said, meeting them at the bottom of the stage. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Whittaker, Mr. Stevens.” He shook each of their hands. Grant struggled against wiping his hand against his pants to rid it of the transferred moisture.
“I’m Principal Howard. Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived, had a meeting, I’m sure you understand.” He pulled on his lapel pin which bore his name and paused.
“Hello, good to meet you,” Grant said, taking note of the much larger jacket and loose skin. It looked like the principal had lost weight in a hurry and needed to hit the gym. Kip muttered something similar.
“Yes, thanks so much for speaking to our young minds. Much appreciated. They respect and look up to you.”
Grant withheld a chuckle and gazed around the auditorium. Various looks, ranging from boredom to sadness to sleepy to curious, were reflected on the faces in the crowd. Not once did he read respect or adoration. During his football career, he dealt with adoring fans often and recognized the signs. These kids couldn't care less about a thirty-nine-year-old former football player. He hadn’t scored earlier with Dr. Riley and may not score during the assembly.
“Glad to be of help,” Grant said, following the Principal to the top of the platform, past the wooden podium to the chairs in front of the curtain. He looked around the crowded auditorium to see if he saw her rust colored, short-sleeved dress. Disappointment settled in his chest when he couldn't locate her.
“Please have a seat here.” The Principal motioned to the chairs and then pulled some cards from his inner coat pocket. “Here are your bios, could you look at them? Make sure they’re accurate? I don’t want to make any mistakes.” The man giggled.
Grant stared at the index card and then looked at Kip, who stared at the principal with his patented, what-the-fuck-was-that-sound-you-just-made look. Men did not giggle. Not in their world.
“Take the card, Kip,” he said in a low tone to stop Kip from saying something rude. Kip had no filter and little tolerance for men who acted feminine in any way. They’d been friends since his rookie year, and spent a lot of time together. Kip’s redneck ideas had been funny when they were in their twenties, and he knew the man did not discriminate, not when it came to women anyway. He’d seen Kip with a rainbow palette of women hanging on his arm. But the man had homophobe written in large block letters across his chest.
“Yeah, yeah… thanks man,” Kip said, handing Grant the other card. The Principal spoke into a headset and left.
Grant read through his bio and placed it in his coat pocket.
“Did you hear that guy? His voice? Gay asshole working around all these kids…man that ain’t right.”
Grant’s gaze slid to Kip and then back to the crowd. He didn’t care for gays either, but running for a public office, he couldn’t make those kinds of comments. “He’s not gay, give it a rest. You think anyone without some bass in their voice is gay.”
Kip snorted, stretched his long legs, and placed his hands in his pant pockets. “You were wrong the last time at the club. You thought Niko was straight.”
Grant stiffened in remembrance and lowered his voice. “Yeah, who the hell would guess? Son-of-a-bitch stood six-six, just shy of three hundred pounds of muscle. He knocked suckers down on the field like a bulldozer. Never picked up any signals he liked dudes,” he said, disgusted he hadn’t known. “You didn’t either, so don’t act all smug.”
Kip chuckled. “Nope, just saying your gaydar is broke. Used to be we could see them coming a mile away, now…all I’m saying is Howard looked at me funny. I know that look. I’m telling you man, he’s not straight.”
“You could be right, so what? These bastards coming out the closet